


it is so quite new a thing

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the last, lazy moment before he opens his eyes, Derek realizes something is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it is so quite new a thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amberlynne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberlynne/gifts).



In the last, lazy moment before he opens his eyes, Derek realizes something is wrong.

His body feels strange – too big and too small all at once, as if his limbs were something he could fit into like a sweater – and his senses feel dull and rusty, like they've been underused. The scent of his pillowcase is entirely wrong, and it doesn't smell _enough_ – the scent is light and cool when it ought to be familiar and strong. Derek opens his eyes just a fraction, peers across the room at a dark wooden dresser and blue-gray walls, at clothes spilling out of a closet, at a lacrosse stick abandoned on the floor, and his eyes grow wide. He sits up sharply, heart jack-rabbiting in his chest. He didn't. He couldn't have – he'd remember if they'd . . . 

Derek looks over his shoulder, but there's no one there. He's sitting in Stiles' bed in Stiles' bedroom, but Stiles is nowhere to be seen. 

"What the hell," Derek says to himself, but his voice comes out all wrong. He coughs and clears his throat, looks around the room, tries to piece together what on earth is going on. There's no sound from the bathroom down the hall, and when Derek tries to hear if Stiles is downstairs, his hearing pulls up short, giving him nothing. He can see Stiles' shoes and Stiles' shirts and Stiles' jeans but, he realizes, nothing of his own. "Stiles?" he says, raising his voice just a little. It still sounds wrong. "Stiles, where are you?"

There's no answer, and Derek slips out of bed, glad to be wearing shorts at least, even if they're covered in tiny pictures of Superman. He doesn't own Superman boxer shorts – he assumes Stiles does (and god, that's predictable) but that doesn't explain why they're on his body, why he might have shown up at Stiles' room naked, what happened to his memory, or where Stiles has gone. Derek's breathing comes fast and choppy, and he can't seem to calm it – it's irritates him that his body won't listen and do his bidding, but the more irritated he becomes, the more his breathing speeds up. He needs to find Stiles – takes a step toward the bedroom door and has a second to register that his center of gravity has changed before he's tripping over his feet and falling flat on his face. He swears, pushes himself up on wobbly arms and eventually stands up, swaying in the middle of the room. His skin feels too tight, and he can feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck. He can't hear the things he should.

"Fuck," Derek breathes, and he reaches out for the chair at Stiles' desk, steadies himself and walks slowly and carefully to the bedroom door. He opens it after a couple of tries, steps out to head to the bathroom, and freezes when the Sheriff breezes down the hall. 

"Morning, son," says the Sheriff, and Derek feels his stomach drop, hurls himself in the direction of the bathroom and knocks his elbow on the doorframe in his hurry. He fumbles for the light switch, turns toward the mirror – and sees Stiles' face reflected there. 

"This can't be happening," says Derek, touching his face, watching Stiles do the same. He holds his hands out in front of him – those are Stiles' hands, with his long, agile fingers – and looks down at his feet, which are skinny with a long-ago broken little toe. "He doesn't heal," Derek mutters, and he flips the seat down on the toilet, sits before he can fall to the floor again, buries his face in his shaking hands.

"Don't go back to bed and sleep the day away!" calls Stiles' father.

"Okay!" he shouts back around the pain that's building in the middle of his chest.

He hears, "I'll see you later," and then Stiles' father is gone.

\-----

Stiles wrinkles his nose before he opens his eyes. "Smelly," he mumbles, and his voice is morning-rough in a way he isn't used to. Maybe he's coming down with something, which would be his luck – to survive an attack of vampires, two tests, his chemistry homework, and then be felled by a common cold. "Mmmph," he groans and sits up in bed – and blinks, because this is not his bedroom at home, or his dorm room. It's Derek's. Stiles stares at the wall somewhat vacantly while he decides on a reaction – goes with the fact that if he slept in this bed then he's totally bitter that he can't remember the best night of his life. Goddamnit.

"Derek?" he calls, and he works his jaw, sticks out his tongue, figures a little exercise might help his vocal cords some. "Where are you?"

There's no answer, and Stiles is suddenly aware that he's completely alone. It's not just that Derek isn't in his line of sight – it's that everything in his body tells him no one else is near; his hearing, his sense of smell, the anticipatory promise of touch. "Weird," he says, swinging his legs out of bed, swaying when the world tilts and then rights itself; his limbs seem weirdly placed. Stiles waits for his stomach to settle, stares at his knees, and slowly realizes they're hairier than they were before. "Uh . . . hmmm," he manages, and looks at his hands. They're broad and capable but they're not his hands, and it takes a whole, quiet moment for that information to push itself deep into Stiles' brain. "What – " he whispers, and stands up, as wobbly on his legs as if he were newly concussed. He rallies – "You can do this, Stilinski," – takes one step, then another, heads toward the bathroom, leaning against the wall as he goes.

It's Derek's face that looks back at him from the mirror – Derek's stubble, Derek's nose – and Stiles stares with his mouth wide open, patting ineffectually at his own chest. "What the ever loving fuck," he asks the dead air around him, and he stretches out his arms, feels the strength in his shoulders, the power coiled in his limbs, and boxes a few punches toward the Derek in the mirror because he looks impressive, and to be honest, because he can. He turns and peers at his ass in the mirror, then catches himself and snaps back around, horrified at himself. It's one thing to stare at Derek's ass without Derek knowing when Derek is the one inside his body, but to grab a look when Derek has no control –

Stiles shakes himself. "No touching," he says to the mirror, sternly. "No ogling." He's really glad he's wearing shorts. 

\----

Derek finds driving a trial. His legs are a new length, and his palms are different, his fingers longer; he has trouble shifting between gears and can't figure out the pressure on the gas. He speeds up, eases back, speeds up again, wonders how to stay sane with all of Stiles' surplus energy coursing through his bones. If Stiles had just answered the phone when Derek called, they might be half-way to fixing this thing by now, provided, of course, that this was a one-to-one body swap, and not a multi-body performance piece. Derek had once known a witch who could swap up to five personalities through five bodies, causing utter havoc for everyone involved. He shudders. He can almost, possibly, handle Stiles being in his body. He just hopes his body isn't occupied by Isaac, or Allison, or Lydia, or even Scott.

When he gets to the loft, Derek runs from the parking lot up eight flights of stairs, getting winded by four, his chest heaving by six, but pushes as far as Stiles' body will let him. He hammers on the door with both his fists.

"Who is it?" someone yells – it's Derek's voice, and Derek takes a step back from the door, his mind whirling. He's here, but he's there; everything essential about himself is in his mind, except the things he takes for granted, like his voice.

"It's me," Derek calls out. "It's – " What does he say? He rakes his fingers through his hair, lets his brain circle the problem. "Use your senses!" he shouts at last.

There's silence from the room, then footsteps come closer. Someone fumbles with the lock before they roll back the door, and Derek looks himself in the face, feels his throat close up with the need to be back inside his body.

Whomever is inside his body is wary – Derek's eyes are narrowed, and his nostrils flare as if he's scenting something out. "Who are you?"

Derek's heart skips a beat. "You know I'm not Stiles."

" _I'm_ Stiles," says the other Derek, and Derek feels his pulse quicken, hammering at his wrists. He feels nauseated, well on his way to becoming unhinged. 

"I'm Derek," he says, and his breathing isn't slowing, even though he should feel relieved. This is bad, this is all so bad, and he doesn't know how to fix it, has to bend a little at the waist, his breathing coming hard and fast. There are gray spots dancing before his eyes and whatever it is that's pinning him like a bug to a board, it hurts – it's choking him, and his hands are shaking and his legs want to give way.

"Derek. Derek, listen to me," says Sties, easing them both down so that they're kneeling on the floor. "It's a panic attack. You ever had a panic attack before?"

Derek shakes his head, grabs hold of Stiles' elbow and holds on.

Stiles cups Derek's face with one hand. "Hold your breath. Hold it. It'll work, I promise."

Derek flails a hand to grab Stiles' other arm, closes his eyes and holds his breath. Everything feels too bright and painful, too much to handle for a burning second, and then gradually the feeling begins to fade. He opens his eyes, wets his dry lips, waits a few moments to regain his breath.

Stiles is studying him, and it's uncomfortable to be looked at with that kind of intensity on his own face. "Lydia taught me that trick."

"Smart," Derek manages, and forces himself to let go of Stiles' elbows. "You get these a lot?"

Stiles screws up his face. "More since I started hanging out with you."

"Nice," Derek says, but he can't help but feel begrudging admiration. He's always known that Stiles acted despite his fears, but he never knew the cost before – that something could rise up out of his body and take hold, no matter what his mind willed. Derek stands up awkwardly, dusts his hands on his jeans. 

Stiles stands up too, grins at Derek, and Derek's struck by how unfamiliar the expression is on his face. "Coffee?" Stiles asks, and bounds down the stairs to the main floor of the loft, hangs a left into the kitchen, and leaves Derek to close the door.

\-----

"So what did this?" Stiles asks, measuring coffee grounds into the basket of the pot. "And more to the point, how do we get back? Not that I'm saying it's a trial being in your body, it's a great place to visit, but I'd like it to be a quick round trip, you know?" He clicks on the pot and turns to look at Derek. Himself. Both.

"Witches," says Derek, sighing deeply. Stiles is pretty sure his expression has never been so glum in his life, and that's counting all the times he's been resigned to his own death.

"Witches. Plural?" he asks.

Derek waves a hand. "I don't know. It only takes one."

"And no one else. No dark druids, no . . . " Stiles peters off under Derek's glare, which frankly looks absurd on his face. "Just an FYI – I "and he gestures at Derek's -- _his_ \-- face, "do not have the chops to pull off a death glare, so you might want to go easy on the scowling there, dude."

Derek just scowls more. "No druids."

"How do you know?"

"The magic is different," Derek says with a shrug. "Can't you feel it?"

Stiles sputters a little. "Man, there is so much going on inside this body I'm surprised I can carry on a conversation, much less figure out what's magic."

Derek frowns. "Like what?"

"Like – you have this . . . aggression all curled up and waiting, and there's all this sensory input, sounds and smells and the way things feel." Stiles rubs his fingers over the t-shirt he's wearing, noticing again the soft, often-washed feel of the cotton against his fingertips. "And you're . . . " He stops himself. "We're talking about this?"

Derek nods once.

"For real?"

Derek nods again.

" I can . . . I can feel how angry you are, it's this physical thing," Stiles says. "And most of that anger's covering up hurt."

Derek flinches back like he's been punched. His jaw tightens and he looks down at his lap, then away across the room. "I don't like this," he says at last.

Stiles casts around for some way to make things better. "You must be able to feel things about me, too," he offers. "Like I'm . . . all over the place, my brain – "

"You're brave," Derek says.

Stiles rocks back on his heels, then forward again, the words taking all the wind out of his sails. "I'm what?"

"You're tensed for disaster, but you don't let it stop you," Derek says. "And your brain is sharp."

"My brain is one lousy mess of confusion and befuddlement most days."

"It just works fast," Derek says seriously. "It's exhausting."

Stiles grins at him. "Welcome to the Stilinski experience," he says, spreading his arms wide. "110% of everything, always."

Derek shakes his head, scrubs a hand over his face. "Magic," he says.

It takes Stiles a moment to parse out that Derek isn't calling his Stilinski experience magic, but redirecting conversation. "Right, right. Magic." He wiggles his fingers. "What would magic feel like?"

Derek holds up a finger, goes still and quiet. Stiles shifts from one foot to the other, folds and unfolds his arms, scratches at his belly. He eyes the coffee cups already in the dish drainer, wonders if it would be rude to start pouring while Derek's doing . . . whatever it is he's doing.

"You already know," says Derek, and the expression on his face is somewhere between puzzled and amazed.

Stiles turns his ear toward Derek, says, "Huh?"

"You know," Derek says. "You can feel magic."

"I can?" This is news to Stiles.

"It's . . . earthy. Warm when the spell's cast for good reasons, cold and when it's malicious. You feel it right here," Derek says, pressing a fist just below his sternum.

Stiles feels his mouth working, but there's no sound coming out. "I thought that was indigestion," he manages.

Derek rolls his eyes.

"Well, excuse me for not knowing I was tuning into witchy frequencies!" Stiles objects. "Because that should have been my first thought, of course."

"Close your eyes," says Derek.

Stiles is going to get whiplash from this conversation. "Why am I closing my eyes?"

"Just do it," Derek says.

Stiles sighs and does as he's told, closes his eyes and waits for more instructions.

"Just . . . sink down. Pay attention to what's inside your body, not outside it."

"Oh, a cinch," Stiles mutters petulantly.

Derek growls.

"Okay, okay, I'm sinking, sinking down . . . " And the strange thing is, he is. It's easy, in this body, to tune out the distractions of the outside world, to let instinct be his guide. He can feel the wolf like a tickle at the back of his mind, feel the bright blue streams of magic that make Derek what he is. And beneath that there's something warm and inviting, golden, a curlicue of magic that he badly wants to reach out and touch. "Oh," he says. "Oh, that's . . . "

"That's the spell," Derek says, and his voice is gentler now. "One witch, one casting. Well-intentioned."

"Huh," Stiles says, but lets himself get distracted by the swift blue push and pull of the werewolf. It's fast and alert, seems to like the attention, spins through his body and out toward his hands, up past his throat and into his mouth.

"Stiles."

It's intoxicating, the way it hums through his muscles, ripples down his spine. He wants more of it, for the magic to expand, fill up his body and – 

" _Stiles_."

"What?" Stiles snaps, but the words come out awkwardly, pushing past sharp, pointed teeth. He blinks open his eyes, stares at his hands, at the claws that are curling from his fingertips. "Oh shit," he says, "oh, shit. Derek – "

Derek's already rounding the kitchen island, empty hands held up in supplication. "Easy," he says.

"I'm a fucking _wolf_ ," Stiles says, teetering between panic and some baser instinct – an urge to run, quick and strong, to feel leaf mold beneath his feet, to track and scent – 

"Stay with me," says Derek, and Stiles flinches when he lays a hand on his arm. "It's okay. Just stay calm."

Stiles laughs a little hysterically.

"Look at me," Derek says, and Stiles does, because what else is he going to do. It's weird to look into his own face, weird to trust that this other self can help him, but weirder still is the fact that he can feel the magic receding, feel himself growing steadier and calmer under his own gaze. "That's it," Derek says softly. "Just keep focused on me."

And Stiles realizes in a split-second's heartbeat that he means something to Derek, that the ways Derek's body's beginning to calm runs along well-established grooves. This isn't the first time he's grounded himself through Stiles; this isn't the first time his body has stilled itself this way. "Oh, wow," Stiles manages, and he sees his other face pink up. 

"Better?" asks Derek.

"Better," says Stiles, looking at his hands. He swallows awkwardly, feeling kind of stupid, wondering what Derek's figured out about him. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"I kind of – went looking for it, and . . . "

"Not your fault," says Derek again, and Stiles turns around rather than face him. He reaches for the coffee cups and carefully pours.

"We should text the others," Derek says after an awkward silence.

Stiles passes him a mug, tries to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order. "You don't have any idea who did this?" 

"No." Derek sits on a stool at the island. "You?"

Stiles isn't sure how he's supposed to know without tuning into the magic again, and he's not in a hurry to re-experience the last ten minutes. "No."

"It could be anyone," Derek says. "A witch who's powerful enough to cast this spell could cloak her magic, pass in plain sight."

"But she must know us," Stiles says. "You said it was well-intentioned. Someone did this deliberately to – to what? Teach us something? Make something happen?"

Derek props his head up on one hand. "We won't know unless we find her."

"And we won't find her unless we can figure out . . . " Stiles sighs. "Ugh, circular logic." He pulls out a stool and sits down too. The tension between them is killing him, so he goes for broke. "Hey, big guy, does this," he asks, gesturing to Derek's stubble, "need upkeep, by the way?" He watches as an expression of unmitigated horror passes across his own face.

"Leave it alone," Derek says, and Stiles can't help but wonder exactly how many ways Derek is imagining Stiles could screw things up with a razor.

"I'm not saying I should do anything _today_ ," Stiles offers. "But if this is going to take a while – "

"Don't do anything," Derek says firmly, and Stiles can't help but grin.

"Got it. No messing with the face," he says. "Or anything else," he adds in a hurry. "I'm not going to . . . take you out for a test drive."

Derek tilts his head. "Thank you?"

"No problem."

"Me, too."

"Awesome."

They sit in silence for longer than Stiles can stand, and he reaches over to pick up Derek's phone, texts the pack.

_____

The rest of the pack arrive in a jumble of coffee cups and backpacks, and it drives Derek nuts that he can't smell them. They're two-dimensional without their scents, pale imitations of who he knows them to be, and he finds himself pacing the loft, arms folded, trying to keep himself calm.

"Is he okay?" he hears Scott ask Stiles in a clumsy stage whisper.

Stiles looks up at him and their eyes lock for a second, then Stiles looks away. "He's fine," he says, and points back at the map spread out on the island. "Back to plotting movements, huh?"

Lydia wields the sharpie, arguing that her handwriting is the best, and soon there are four clearly marked points where Derek's and Stiles' paths crossed the day before: the preserve, the 7-11, the coffee shop, and Derek's loft.

"Well that's one down," says Allison. "You'd have known if someone else was here."

"No traveling sales people?" asks Stiles, and Derek isn't in the mood for his teasing. "No one tried to hawk you encyclopedias?"

Derek stares him down rather than answer.

"So that leaves the other three," says Isaac. "We should split up – "

"Does no one else see the problem here?" asks Lydia. She waits for the rest of them to catch up, but no one says a thing. "This is all presumes that the witch stayed put and they went to _her_."

Derek closes his eyes in frustration. "This could take forever."

"No, no, not forever," says Stiles urgently. "Definitely not forever." He smiles awkwardly. "Right? I mean . . . maybe we can sniff her out."

"We don't know her scent," Derek says.

"But we know she practices magic. Wouldn't I be able to feel it if there was magic around? Even if she's using magic to mask herself?"

Derek shakes his head, feeing helpless. "You might."

"Maybe I can pick up something," says Lydia. 

"Me too," says Scott. 

"So like I said, we split up – " says Isaac.

"And see what we can find," Stiles finishes. He claps his hands together enthusiastically. "We have a plan."

Derek isn't sure it's a good plan, but then he isn't sure about a lot of things, looking out on the world from inside Stiles' body. He can't run as fast as Stiles, he can only sense magic if he's quiet and still – he feels useless and frustrated and wants his own body back.

"You and me, big guy," says Stiles, stepping in front of him.

"You don't need me," says Derek.

Stiles shakes his head. "I need your mind," he says, tapping Derek on the forehead. "We're taking the nature preserve – you know that place better than anyone; you can figure out where someone might have gone to cast spells."

Derek lets the thought sink in for a moment. "My mind," he repeats dryly.

"Dude, I can run – point me in the right direction and I can cover ground. But I have no idea where to start."

Derek's used to being necessary because of his body, because of muscle and claws and teeth and eyes. It's a new thing to consider that he still has something to offer when all that's stripped away. "Okay," he says at last. "But I'm driving."

Stiles grins at him and claps him on the shoulder. "All right! Operation Switch Us Back is a go."

They park near the Hale house in case the witch is drawing on memories with her magic, but Stiles can't feel anything or smell anything that shouldn't be around. "It's just leaves and dirt and mold and ash," he says blithely, clearly champing at the bit to have a reason to run. "Smells familiar."

Derek sends Stiles off toward the clearing on the hill where they'd once broken up a fairy ring, walks the lower paths toward the cliffs himself. It's strange to move slowly in his territory, to not be able to hear another living thing unless he scares something out of the bushes, or causes a bird to fly upward in a flutter of wings. He jogs a little, remembers where there are logs to be watchful of, where the footing is unsteady, gains a little confidence in Stiles' body to do what he bids even if he's moving slower than he'd like.

It's the stream he doesn't account for – jumps for a rock in the middle of the water and realizes too late that he doesn't have the power to make the leap. He falls short, awkwardly smashes his arm against the rock, slips and feels the riverbed scrape at his back. He loses his footing twice before he can stand, jams his other elbow, wades carefully to the far bank and climbs up and out of the water. He's freezing – the water is far colder than he remembers – and he hurts all over, bruises and scrapes and blood seeping through his shirt on one arm. He watches with disinterest as the blood blooms and spreads, then remembers with a sickening lurch that Stiles' body won't heal like his would have done, and he struggles to pull the wet fabric away from his body, to peel himself out of that sleeve.

He's cut himself deeply across his upper arm, and he feels his heart race as he studies the gash. He dabs at it ineffectually, but it hurts to get in too close, and he feels himself trembling from cold and confusion.

Stiles crashes through the brush and comes to a messy halt in front of Derek. "I smelled blood," he says, and his eyes grow wide at the sight of the gash on his arm. "What happened?"

"Slipped," Derek says. "Fell."

Stiles grabs the wet shirt that's in Derek's lap, winds it around his upper arm, ignoring Derek's protestations, his small, pained whine. "It needs pressure," Stiles says, and he's utterly calm, which is more than can be said for Derek.

"You don't heal," he says, and his teeth are chattering.

"We'll get you to the hospital, come on . . . "

"What if they can't – " Which is absurd. He's seen his pack hurt worse, stitched up and lethargic in the ER while he waits to take them home.

Stiles shrugs out of the jacket he's wearing, hangs it around Derek's shoulders. "They can fix anything," he says. "They can definitely fix this."

Derek reaches out and snags Stiles' shirt between his fingers. "I'm sorry," he says, wanting him to understand. "I didn't mean to get you hurt."

And Stiles looks at him like he's the most baffling thing he's ever seen. "Derek," he says, and he pushes a hand through Derek's wet hair. "It's okay. I've done worse." And he hauls Derek up by the elbow, takes a different path back across the water, keeps up a stream of chatter the whole way back to the car and back across town.

The ER's mercifully calm – a couple of people who look pale and ill, a guy with his foot elevated in a nearby chair. Melissa sees them the moment they walk in the door, and she's in Derek's face so fast he almost steps back to avoid it. "Oh, god, honey, what did you do this time?" she asks. The force of her affection is overwhelming, and Derek squirms underneath her gaze.

"Fell," he says. "In the woods."

Melissa raises an eyebrow. "I wish you kids would keep away from there," she says, and glances toward Stiles. "You gotta be more careful with this one," she says, as though she's addressing Derek. 

Stiles' face is a picture – he shrugs and offers a weird half-smile. "Absolutely," he offers, and goes to the check-in desk to deal with the paperwork better than Derek could.

The gash needs six stitches, and while they only use local anesthetic, Derek feels woozy and sore when they're done. He lies on his gurney cataloging all the places that Stiles' body hurts and thinks of the times that Stiles has kept running, kept working, kept distracting the next big bad despite blood and bruises and more.

"They're bringing you pain pills," Stiles says, pushing through the curtains. "You okay?"

"Fine," Derek says, distracted by the way Stiles body reacts to having Derek's body in close range. He wonders why he didn't notice it before – too many strange things all at once, he supposes, too shocked and concerned to take it in. But Stiles' body aches in recognition of Derek. There's a low thrum of banked arousal, but more, the urge to just reach out and touch. Derek realizes he means something to Stiles – that the yearning to be close isn't new, but familiar. He tries to say something, but the words won't come, and a nurse breezes in with a plastic cup of pain pills and a prescription in her hand.

"Take these," she says, pouring him water.

"I don't need them," Derek protests.

"Yes you do," Stiles interjects, and the nurse gets a resigned but affectionate look on her face. 

"They're mild," she promises. "You won't be doing anything out of the ordinary." 

Derek looks at Stiles, who looks back with an impressively blank expression, as if he's not laughing inside. "Fine," Derek agrees, and swallows the pills.

"And you," the nurse says to Stiles, "take him home. Let him rest."

Stiles nods, and his fingers have crept around Derek's uninjured arm. "Will do," he says, and Derek aches inside.

\-----

The rest of the pack turn up nothing. Lydia and Allison report that the 7-11 is good for little but picking up slushies; Scott and Isaac that the coffee shop staff are the same as ever, but someone might have slipped in and out amid the crowd of caffeine-seekers the day before.

"That doesn't make sense," says Lydia. "They were there three-and-a-half hours apart. It's far more likely someone cast a spell on them individually than they sat around hoping that both would show up."

Scott sighs and looks down at the map charting everywhere that Derek and Stiles traveled the day before. "You couldn't have had a nice quiet day at home?" he asks them both.

Stiles grins. "When have I had a nice quiet anything, Scotty-boy?"

Scott shakes his head. "That grin is just bizarre on that face, man."

Everyone starts to drift away at dinner, with promises to start work on the other spots next morning. Stiles texts his dad to tell him he'll be at Scott's for the night, as much to prevent his dad having conversations with Derek as to fend off questions about his arm. "Done," he tells Derek. "You won't have to pretend to be me around my dad, though shame on you for passing up a golden opportunity to hear a wealth of embarrassing stories."

Derek's mouth quirks. "I know plenty that's embarrassing about you already."

Stiles' laugh is a little strained – he wonders if Derek's talking about the moments he's been witness to, or the things he knows from being inside Stiles' body. "Take-out?" he says to cover his discomfort, and they fall into an easy bickering about Chinese or Mexican or Thai that belies the fact that their day has been fucking crazed.

They eat – Thai food wins by process of elimination – and sprawl on the couch watching terrible TV in companionable silence. Derek heads to the bathroom during one set of commercials, and comes back looking down-faced and chagrined. Stiles swallows, his mind flying to a hundred things that could have put that look on Derek's face, all of them terrifyingly intimate. "Dude?" he asks.

"It's nothing," Derek says.

"It's not nothing."

Derek sighs. "I just . . . can't look at myself in the mirror. It's all wrong. Makes me feel all the places I don't fit inside your body, all over again."

Stiles nudges his foot against Derek's on the coffee table. "I get it."

"I know you do."

The TV stops trying to sell them frozen vegetables and they're back to cops and forensic scientists and those with a criminal bent. Stiles rubs a hand absently over his stomach - _Derek's_ stomach – aware of how different food feels in this body, and who could have predicted that? That his legs don't twitch and his hands are still makes obvious sense – it's relaxing in a way, to be inside a body so content to be at rest – but the little things, like the shape his breath takes inside Derek's body, or the particular pounding of blood at his wrists, are startling, they're so individual. Stiles glances over, sees that Derek is twirling his thumbs.

"Sorry about that," he says, gesturing toward Derek's hands. "Must be driving you crazy."

"What?" Derek asks.

"The energy," Stiles says. "My inability to be still."

Derek looks at his hands with something close to surprise. "I hadn't even noticed I was doing that," he says. "I guess I'm getting used to it."

Stiles isn't sure how he feels about that, but he's growing comfortable in Derek's body, too. Too comfortable, perhaps. He knows so much. "You, uh . . . you learned anything, being me?"

Derek shoots him an impenetrable look, then stares back at the TV. "Some stuff."

"Like?"

Derek's cheeks pink up and he chews on his lip. "Things."

Stiles feels frustration build in his chest, along with a shocking dose of courage. "Only, I think you might like me," he says boldly. "And I'm pretty sure you can't be in my body and not know I like you."

The back of Derek's neck begins to flush, and Stiles is idly fascinated to see what he looks like when he's vulnerable and flustered. "How'd you work it out?" Derek asks, and it sounds like he's having to force out every single word.

"When you told me how to calm the wolf," Stiles said. "You've kept your calm by focusing on me before."

Derek runs his hands through Stiles' hair, making it stick up at a myriad of different angles. "So?"

"So, nothing," Stiles says. "I'm not judging."

"Feels like you're judging."

"How can I judge you for feelings I have too?" Stiles asks, voice growing sharp.

Derek tightens his jaw, then relaxes it again. "I never meant for you to know," he says at last. "It's a lot to ask."

Stiles doesn't follow. "What is?"

"To get involved with me."

"Why?" asks Stiles incredulously.

"Because." Derek shifts in his seat. "Because bad things happen to people who get involved with me."

"Dude, bad things have been happening to me ever since Scott got bitten, I doubt my odds would go up because I was making out with you on the side."

Derek looks up at the ceiling. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I like you," Stiles replies, and his heart is trying to beat clean out of his chest. "And you like me, too, and we should do something about that." He winces and clears his throat. "After we're . . . you know. Ourselves," he offers.

"Thank god," Derek says. "Things were about to get really awkward."

"Don't want to jack yourself off?" Stiles asks, and he can't help but smile.

"Not with your hands, no," Derek counters. "I'll gladly wait for you to do the honors."

Which makes Derek's dick twitch in his pants, and Stiles looks with horror at his crotch. "Hey now. Back down, sunshine. Now is not the time."

Derek snorts and flips over to another channel. "It always did have a mind of its own."

Stiles stares at him, then starts to laugh, and the miraculous thing is that Derek starts laughing, too. It's the first time in the whole fucked up day that Stiles feels entirely like himself, laughing helplessly at Derek, who's laughing at him, all their messed up emotions given vent.

"Come on," says Stiles at last, reaching for the remote and flicking off the TV. "Bed. It's exhausting being you."

"I think you mean it's exhausting being _you_ ," Derek counters, but he doesn't object, and doesn't say a word about Stiles following him to his bed. Stiles figures things are too weird for normal rules to apply – if he wants to climb into Derek's bed, he can.

They strip to their underwear and slip beneath the covers. Stiles tries to settle, but he's uncomfortably aware of how many times he's thought of this scenario, with each of them in the body to which they belong. He blows out a long breath, stares at the ceiling, has nothing to keep his worst fears at bay. What if this isn't reversible? What if he has to live out Derek's life, and watch Derek live out his own? What if he never gets to hear his dad call him _son_ again, or hug him like he wants to? What if his mom can hear him at the gravesite, but can't recognize this voice?

He shifts and rubs his eyes with the heels of both hands. If nothing changes back, he'll be a wolf – a wolf with no control, startled into changing, scared into baring fangs. The moon is days away yet, but he remembers Scott's first too clearly, the bloodlust and strength he could barely contain, the danger he posed. He doesn't want to be a wolf, never took the bite no matter how many times Peter asked, loved being human down to his core. And now he might be trapped, might have no choice, and all because of some witch's spell.

Derek yawns and turns over to his side, facing Stiles in the dark. Stiles thinks of Derek, stripped of another thing that speaks of family, and his heart hurts to be an instrument of that pain. "What are we going to do?" he murmurs, but Derek's already asleep, and Stiles has no choice but to close his own eyes, to turn toward Derek and curl up close, to imagine Derek's face might be looking at him by morning, to hope that a miracle can occur.

\-----

When Derek wakes up, it takes him a moment to realize that everything is right.

He takes a deep breath and his lungs fill; stretches out his fingers, and his hands feel like his own. He glances down his body, and he's wearing boxer briefs, not Superman shorts; rubs a hand over his face, and there's stubble beneath his fingertips. He can hear things again – the rumble of traffic out on the highway; the argument someone's having in 1B – and he can smell that his pack was in the loft not long ago, smell Stiles' blood and sweat. Relief crashes in, an overwhelming force, and Derek turns his head to look at Stiles. Every other feeling comes tumbling in.

Stiles is fast asleep on his stomach, eyelashes dark against his cheek, mouth slightly open. His arm is bandaged, but there's no fresh blood showing through the dressing, and his shorts are riding low on his hips. He's kicked off the blankets and his feet are turned in toward each other. Derek's mouth waters, and he claps a hand over his eyes, rolls onto his back rather than feel like some creeper, stealing glances to take his fill.

"You're noisy," Stiles mumbles.

Derek pulls his hand away from his face. "Am not," he says. 

"Y'keep moving," Stiles amends.

"Stiles."

Stiles grumbles into his pillow and doesn't open his eyes. 

"Stiles, it's undone. We're back in our own bodies."

Stiles eyes fly open at that. He sits up and stares at his hands, runs his fingers over his chest, up his neck, across his face, through his hair. "Oh my god," he says fervently. "Oh my god, we're back."

He looks over at Derek, and Derek feels his chest fill with worry and doubt, want and hope. They said so much the night before – what did any of it mean in the morning? Derek watches as Stiles' expression shifts from amazement to fondness, watches Stiles reach out one hand and spread his fingers wide in the middle of Derek's chest.

"Hi," Stiles says. "We've met. And I like you."

Derek lets the gut-punch of that sink in for a moment, then surges up, takes Stiles' face between his hands and kisses him. Stiles kisses him too – licks his way into Derek's mouth with damp lips and a deft tongue. Derek feels lit up and breathless, amazed to be kissing Stiles, struck down by the fortune of Stiles kissing back. When he pulls back he's panting for breath, and Stiles is flushed pink, his gaze darting over Derek's face and back to his mouth.

"I've missed your face," Derek says, which makes almost no sense, since he could have seen it anytime he wanted the day before. But it's different now, with Stiles in control, with Stiles looking back at him.

"I missed yours," Stiles replies, grazing his thumb over Derek's stubble. He bites his lip, swallows so deliberately that Derek can see his Adam's apple bob, says, "please tell me we're going to have sex?" and Derek nods in the hopes that says it all.

He pushes Stiles down into the bed, kissing him helplessly. Stiles' arms wind around his back; his thighs bracket Derek's hips, and Derek can't help but rut against him, once, twice, can't help chasing the friction of their bodies made right. He noses at Stiles jaw, pressing kisses beneath his ear, grows with satisfaction when Stiles bares his throat. He bites there, gently, feels Stiles' hips buck beneath his, hears Stiles say, "fantasy number one, fulfilled." Derek laughs into the crook of Stiles' shoulder, nips at his collarbone, makes a soft, helpless noise when Stiles curls his fingers into Derek's hair. Derek wends his way back to Stiles' mouth, dropping kisses as he moves, and when their lips touch Derek shivers, pleasure gliding down his spine.

"I need to touch you," Derek murmurs, pushing up and away, kneeling back between Stiles' legs. Stiles' chest is heaving, his skin blotched with pink, and he reaches for one of Derek's hands, tangles their fingers together. Derek squeezes back, reaches to run his other hand down Stiles' chest, to watch his hand move of its own volition, to feel the bump of Stiles' ribs. He leans in and kisses the moles on Stiles' chest, noses at one nipple, sucks it into his mouth and works it with his tongue until Stiles squirms beneath him, hitching out his name. Derek smiles and does the same to Stiles' other nipple, shivers when Stiles drags his fingernails down Derek's back, chases kisses down over Stiles' belly to his navel, his hip, to the elastic at the waistband of his shorts.

"You're killing me," Stiles says, breathless, as Derek palms his cock. Stiles is hard, the tip of his dick leaving a wet spot on his shorts, and Derek bends his head to suck Stiles in, the drag of cotton against his tongue, against Stiles' dick, making Stiles buck and swear. Stiles releases Derek's hand, pushes at his shoulders until he moves aside, makes short work of wriggling out of his boxers before he lies back down. 

"Better?" asks Derek, nosing at Stiles' inner thigh.

"Getting there," Stiles says back, laughing a little, the sound morphing into a moan as Derek mouths at his balls.

Derek feels dizzy, light-headed and happy, and he licks a stripe up Stiles' cock. "I want you to fuck me," he says, and delights in watching Stiles shudder hard.

"Fantasy number two," Stiles says, and he's rolling them both, straddling Derek's hips, leaning in to kiss him until Derek's hard pressed to remember his own name. Stiles rocks down, and Derek bites back a moan at how good that feels, how much more he wants, how badly he wants to feel Stiles' mouth everywhere at once.

"The drawer," Derek says, and flails a hand in the direction of the end table pushed up against the wall. Stiles bats his hand away and shifts to reach himself, pulls the drawer open and drops lube and a condom on the bed. "I'm clean," Derek blurts out, and Stiles grabs his own cock at the base, breathes hard through his nose, clearly has to marshal all his resources not to come.

He looks at Derek and says, "You're sure?" Derek nods, says, "shift a little, let me – " and takes off his own underwear when Stiles moves aside. He's hard; his cock is flushed and bobs against his stomach as he lies back down, as he bends his knees and spreads his legs and Stiles warms the lube between his hands. 

"Do you have any idea how you look?" Stiles asks, and he sounds wrecked as he leans in to kiss Derek hard, ghosting a finger over Derek's hole. Derek shudders and sinks down into the mattress, groaning softly when Stiles eases a finger inside.

"About as debauched as you?" he guesses, and Stiles smiles against his mouth, trails a string of kisses up toward his ear, noses into his hair as he eases a second finger beside the first. Derek tries to bite back a moan, but it escapes anyway, and Stiles whispers, "Shhhhh, I've got you," kisses him again.

Stiles takes his time, patiently works up to three fingers, then four. Derek's losing his mind by the time Stiles pulls back and slicks up his cock, so turned on he can't think straight, sweat beading on his chest, in the crook of his arms, at the back of his knees. "Come on," he baits, reaching for Stiles, curling a hand around the back of his neck as Stiles lines himself up. "Come on, what are you waiting for, come on . . . "

And Stiles pushes inside, the head of his cock pressing past muscle, and Derek arches his back, lets out a wordless groan. "You all right?" Stiles asks, his hair falling into his face, damp with sweat, and Derek laughs, says, " _yes_ ," and Stiles pushes further inside. He's in no rush, rocks his hips to slide deeper and deeper into Derek's body, finally comes to a rest with his balls pushed right up against Derek's ass, smiles beatifically and doesn't move at all. Derek barely holds himself back from a howl.

"Slow," Stiles tells him, and leans forward, bracing himself with one hand, drawing back and thrusting back inside. The drag of his body is intoxicating, and Derek rests his hands against Stiles's hips, feels the flex and pull of his muscles, the pressure of him, the long slow glide. Stiles mouths at Derek's shoulder, kisses his neck, hovers above him radiating heat. "Feel good?" he asks, and his voice is unsteady. Derek just nods, holds on tight.

Stiles spins things out as long as he's able, maddening in his patience. It's a long time before that patience is spent, before Stiles snaps his hips and Derek gasps for breath, before Derek reaches for his own cock, fists himself to Stiles' encouragement. "I want to see you come," Stiles breathes.

It's enough to light a fire at the base of Derek's spine, and he feels himself harden and thicken in his grasp. He rubs his thumb below the head of his dick, twists his wrist on every up stroke, matches the pace of his hand to the rhythm of Stiles' thrusts. His orgasm builds, slow and sly, a heat in his limbs, a pressure behind his cock, and he arches up into his own hand, moans loudly, brokenly, when he comes, splattering his stomach, squeezing down on Stiles' dick.

Stiles swears and loses his rhythm – his hips stutter and he thrusts in again, looks almost in pain when he finally gives a sharp groan and empties himself inside Derek, holding himself still until his arm gives out and he collapses on Derek's chest.

Derek likes the weight of him, likes the scent of him, likes the taste of him at the back of his throat. He skims a hand up Stiles' spine, scritches his fingers through Stiles' hair, gets a shiver and a feeble moan for his trouble. "You broke me," Stiles says at last, and Derek protests feebly as he pulls out. 

"Mutual," Derek manages as Stiles flops back down on top of him, hand skimming Derek's hip.

"We're going to hate this if we don't clean up," Stiles mumbles, rubbing a thumb in the come on Derek's skin.

"You feel like standing?" Derek asks.

Stiles huffs and Derek can feel him smile. "No."

Derek laughs, and reluctantly rolls out from beneath Stiles' body. His legs, when he stands, are weak and uncooperative, and he stumbles on his way to the bathroom, thinks of doing the same some twenty-four hours before. But this time when he looks in the mirror, he's himself – flushed and bitten, sweaty and wrecked – and as he runs hot water over a washcloth, cleans himself up, he can't help but smile.

He takes another washcloth back to bed, gently rolls Stiles onto his back, wipes at his cock, at his balls. "Better?" he asks, throwing the washcloth aside, slipping back into bed, feeling desperately satisfied when Stiles wriggles close.

"You keep asking that," Stiles yawns.

"Maybe I mean it," Derek says, pushing Stiles' hair back from his face.

"Maybe you do," Stiles replies, smiling, and he's half-asleep and his eyes are closing, but he leans in and kisses Derek, says, "Not better; just best."

\-----

They text the pack when they wake up, explain the spell has passed and they're both completely fine. Lydia still wants to find the witch who started everything; Scott wants to know what they're doing later; Allison texts "congratulations on being yourselves,"; Stiles just wants Doritos and Gatorade and perhaps a Snickers bar or two.

They dress and wander down to the 7-11, bicker happily amid the shelves of beef jerky and peanuts, toilet paper and buckets; kiss by the Hostess cupcakes, and Derek blushes all the way to the counter. "Just these," he says as Stiles dumps his junk food booty. Derek rests a hand at the small of Stiles' back.

"So it worked," says the shop assistant, a grandmotherly figure with round cheeks and perfectly styled blonde hair.

"Hmmm, what did?" asks Stiles as she rings up his six-pack of Oreos-to-Go.

But Derek is already focused, chasing a whisper of magic with his mind. "It was _you_?"

The shop assistant's name is Doris – so says her name tag – and she dimples with pride. "I hear everything in here," she says. "You and your friend, the cute one," she says to Stiles. "You and your sister that one time," to Derek.

Stiles' mouth is open but no sound is coming out.

"Such nice boys. Felt like you needed a happy ending."

Derek blushes again, feels Stiles begin to vibrate with laughter beside him. 

"You do this often?" Derek asks.

"Oh, no," she replies. "The union has rules. We can only godmother a few souls in our lives."

Stiles meeps at Derek's elbow. "You're our _fairy godmother_?" he asks.

"Witch, sweetheart. Don't go mixing me up with the overgrown pixies, now."

Derek hands over a $20 bill on autopilot, accepts his change as Doris puts their food in a bag.

"Now you boys enjoy your summer," she says, grinning prettily. "Come back anytime."

Stiles looks as if he has something to say, so Derek grabs him by the elbow, drags him toward the door as he splutters and yelps, "You can't just work magic on unsuspecting people!"

"She did," Derek says, manhandling Stiles outside. "Are you sorry?"

Stiles looks from the door of the 7-11 to Derek, eyes wide. "Sorry? No, not at all."

Derek smiles. "So how about we just count this as a win?"

Stiles looks torn for a moment, before he drops his head and smiles. "I guess we did win pretty big."

Derek grins and reaches for Stiles' hand. "I guess we did," he replies.

They walk back to the loft in silence until they reach the outside door. Stiles grabs Derek's elbow, turns him around, and pushes him back up against the wall, radiating happiness. "Hi," he says, and his smile is brilliant. "We've met. I like you."

And Derek grins to think this will be what they say to each other for years to come, the way they'll remember this beginning. "I like you, too," he murmurs, and kisses Stiles, unlocks the door.

**Author's Note:**

> with grateful thanks to dogeared for beta.
> 
> "i like my body when it is with your  
> body. It is so quite new a thing.  
> Muscles better and nerves more.  
> i like your body. i like what it does,  
> i like its hows. i like to feel the spine  
> of your body and its bones, and the trembling  
> -firm-smooth ness and which i will  
> again and again and again  
> kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,  
> i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz  
> of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes  
> over parting flesh … And eyes big love-crumbs,
> 
> and possibly i like the thrill
> 
> of under me you so quite new."
> 
> \- e. e. cummings


End file.
